A commercial filled the screen, and Myrtle lowered the volume with the remote. “Eugene, what happened to your dog?”
Staring at his plate, Eugene said, “He died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you getting another?”
Eugene had gone to the Humane Society that morning but been unable to find the kind of dog he wanted. “Eventually.”
“Are you looking for a particular breed?”
How did he describe the dog he wanted? It had to be ugly and fierce and beautiful all at the same time. A dog that no one else wanted; a dog that hated life as much as he did.
“I’ll know it when I see it,” Eugene said.
Dancing on the screen was a giant chicken selling used cars, then a teaser for a noon news show. Reaching across Mr. Kozlowski’s tray, Eugene picked up the remote control and hit the volume. “If you don’t mind.”
“Why no, of course not,” Myrtle said.
Rising from his chair, Eugene planted himself in front of the TV, his face a foot from the screen. The commercial ended, and the face of an attractive red-haired newscaster filled the screen.
“This is Jayne Hunter,” the newscaster said. “On today’s News at Noon, learn if the water you’re drinking is contaminated, why the Lakers are underdogs for the upcoming playoffs, and how a famous magician is helping police track down L.A.’s worst serial killer. These stories and more, coming up.”
Another commercial danced across the screen. Eugene balled his fists in rage. This was all wrong. The hooker he’d murdered last night should have been one of the stories, not a piece about Hardare, the Vegas lounge lizard.
“How about more cake?” Myrtle asked.
“No,” Eugene replied, staring straight ahead.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m full,” he snapped.
The news came on. Hardare was the lead story, and was standing behind the Las Palmas hotel where he’d dumped Tawny Starr. A reporter shoved a mike into the magician’s face.
“Tell us what you’re about to do,” the reporter said.
“A woman was murdered here last night,” Hardare explained. “A residue of that violent act still lingers. I’m going to try to capture that residue, and help the police catch the killer.”
“Baloney,” Eugene shouted at the screen.
A clipboard was placed into the magician’s hands. Hardare showed the top page to the camera. It was blank. Handing the clipboard to the reporter, he removed a cigarette lighter and a piece of tissue from his pocket. He lit the tissue by its end, and let it burn in the palm of his hand. When it was no more than ash, he smeared it across the face of the clipboard.
“Our killer was dressed like a student,” Hardare said. “. He even had schoolbooks in his car. His face is square, and not particularly handsome. If he has a prominent feature, I would say it’s his nose. And he’s wearing a baseball cap. He’s a Dodger’s fan. Here is what he looks like.”
Hardare spun the clipboard spun around in his palms. A drawing of a man wearing a Dodger’s cap had appeared on the blank page. The man bore a striking resemblance to himself, and Eugene felt his entire body shudder.
“Would you look at that,” Myrtle said.
Eugene rose from the floor. “I need to go.”
“Sure you don’t want some more cake?”
Eugene shook his head. Mr. Kozlowski’s fingers were typing on his tiny computer. Eugene strained to read what he’d written.
HAVE A NICE DAY
“You, too,” he said.
Eugene stood in his backyard, destroying the evidence of last night’s killing. He squeezed the can of lighter fluid onto the burning dungarees, shirt, Nike Airs and baseball cap he’d stuffed inside the rusted oil drum, the fluid feeding the flame.
Within minutes only ashes remained. Opening a newspaper on the ground, he tilted the drum on its side, and poured the remaining evidence onto the sports page. Stomping out the ashes, he gathered the paper, went inside and flushed them down the toilet.
Then he took a shower. He alternated the temperature between scalding hot and teeth-chattering cold, still amazed at how similar the sensations felt the moment the water first hit his body. He started out cold, and slapped the wall in agony.
Hardare had shown the police what he looked like. It was not a good resemblance, nothing that would hold up in court, but that didn’t matter. They could find him now, track him down. And they would have no problem linking him to his crimes. The police had convicted Ted Bundy by matching his bridge to the bite marks on one of his victim’s arms, and their forensic technology would convict him as well. Then his reign would be over, the rest of his life spent in prison, playing checkers on Death Row.
He twisted off the cold water while simultaneously releasing the hot. The water burned his chest like tiny darts of flame. He bit his tongue savagely, halting the scream that boiled out of control within him. What was he going to do, burn all the clothes in his closet, sell the car, torch the house, and while he was at it, concrete the backyard?
He got out of the shower and stood before the vanity. A red sun the size of a pancake formed on his chest, the skin turning hot pink before his eyes. Without a disguise, he looked like a freak with his pop eyes and hairless body. The tears of his tortured childhood marched in steady progression down his face.
Going to his bedroom, Eugene drew the curtains and switched off the lights. Lying naked on the icy floor, he wrestled with his demons, his eyes fixed on the bedroom walls, watching their rough texture mold and shape itself in a thousand free-form patterns, while he waited for an answer to come.
Chapter 14
Red Warriors
That night, Wondero watched a recording of Hardare’s stunt on his TV, drank a beer, watched it again, and when he was satisfied that he’d done the right thing, decided to go to bed.
On the way upstairs he ducked into the kitchen for another bite of dessert and discovered a disaster area. His wife had refined the art of preparing thirty minute dinners, the only complaint being the lack of restraint she showed in her tornado-like-spins around the kitchen each night. Whose turn was it to clean? His son’s? No, his daughter’s. He glanced at the wall calendar and saw his own initials penciled below the date.
He cleaned up, and rewarded himself with a piece of cherry cobbler topped with Ready Whip. While he ate, he thumbed through his son’s schoolbooks. Computer science, trigonometry and physics, subjects Wondero didn’t think had been invented when he was in school. Printed on the trig book’s jacket was this year’s football schedule, now completed. The Trojans had gone 12 and 0, with his son playing backup quarterback. On the bottom of the jacket, his son had written BEAT RED WARRIORS!
He thought back to his conversation with Jackson, the cop who’d found Tawny Starr dumped in the trash. One of the things Tawny had said to him was Red Warriors. He picked up the textbook and headed upstairs.
His son lay beneath a twirl of sheets, texting his girlfriend. Wondero hopped around the clothes strewn around the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. His son folded his phone.
“You ought to clean this mess up.”
“I did. You should have seen it before.”
“Very funny.” Wondero placed the textbook on the bed. “Tell me something. What does this mean, BEAT THE RED WARRIORS?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No. Refresh my memory.”
“Two years ago, the Trojans went to the Conference finals, and you took me down to San Diego to see the game. The other team was huge; half their guys had moustaches and beards. It looked like a scrimmage. About ten minutes before the game ended they started running up the score and then there was a huge clap of thunder and the skies opened up.”